


Draco Malfoy and The Rising Sun

by FeverentMaim



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cultural Appreciation, Draco is a big mess, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Post-Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, allusions to depression, semi-Cursed Child Compliant, the dead live in spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 18:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11880186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeverentMaim/pseuds/FeverentMaim
Summary: As a fledgling Scorpius seeks the early morning, Draco considers the darkness, and the memory of his wife.





	Draco Malfoy and The Rising Sun

Darkness still veiled the world, when he woke to hear his son rising. The walls, made as they were, carried the sounds from his bedroom with theatric quality, as he shuffled apparatus in his wardrobe like a thief in the night. Soon after, he would patter to the library and collect his books. Then, in the dining room, dabble at his breakfast, the silver clashing on the china until they were finally dropped onto a cleaned plate.

Since returning home that summer, Scorpius had taken suddenly and devotedly to this new habit, without ever a given explanation. He needed not one, Draco had decided - the pillow laying vacant, the overwhelming solitude, reminded him of the absence that afflicted the air, the verity of what had been shocking him anew with the end of every lucid dream.

But peeking at the grandfather nearby, this time Draco found the hour to be far too ungodly. And as he rolled groggily out from underneath the blanket, the noise became reminiscent of Hogwarts through and through. The library filled with chatter. Two pairs of oxfords clattered on the marble floor, one wildly chasing the other down the staircase in a gaggle.

He would have thought that his son would know to observe a little peace. His inner voice suggested he tell him just that.

Though he didn't. Potter's boy accompanying him, Scorpius passed his father unknowingly through the entrance hall, chuckling an inside conversation between them. Scorpius only noticed his faint shade under the dim chandelier, startled when facing him lurking, weary, at the stair top.

"Dad!" Scorpius uttered, polite but baffled. He and Potter shot at each other worryingly, smitten with contrition. "I'm sorry, did we wake you?"

Passively, Draco flicked his wand to suffuse the lights, ridding his figure of obscurity to show himself fully dressed. "No, son." he responded, allowing some tired solidity to break his tenor, "I was not sleeping well."

Scorpius scrutinized his father, suspecting a lie as painted white as could be. He remained, unmoving, endearing his father with concern unlike a Malfoy, reflecting in the silver reaches of his eyes.

Draco formed a firm frown, pretending impatience with little more than a hardened tone, "Well?" he said flatly, "Go on!"

The boys immediately scuttled without argument, although there revealed slight rue upon Scorpius' mein, as he turned for a splitting moment; a question to his father, quietly and quickly spoken.

Crosshatched silhouettes grazed the windows, racing to the garden, both forgetting to cast the door closed behind them. Draco listened, until the door was soundly shut, their voices a drifting gale into the manor.

Listlessly, he continued to the kitchen. The head of house, now and for sometime, his presence was expected, but to the busy house elves, who never saw their master in their hours, the timing was perplexing. None, however, inquired if he was well. They discussed lunch and dinner, Draco only nodding adherently as the elves explained the needs of their work.

He afterward wandered to his father's old office, where he ruminated, in an ignored pile, over letters stamped with gold sigils. He returned with them to his room - simply his, alone - reading each as he scribbled numbers in a leather bound book, his eyes blurring under fatigue and tragic candlelight, for what seemed like an arduous while.

And when the ink dried, the book stashed away, Draco stared into a shrouded corner. Idle. Clouded. Mind grey with static.

There was nothing there, he thought. In the emptiness, there was nothing sure to appear, whether welcome or unwelcome to his isolation. He shook his head, scrambling himself together, all the more decided these intrusions were his sleep-depraving dreams.

Even as he left, he did not escape nothing. The manor was hollow, a well of ghosts, the past preceding as Draco meandered through its halls. He could not discern the home his family had made, from the shadowed fortress he had received; his namesake a sanctuary, yet like a prison, holding him in its narrow world.

There were days, worse ones, when he felt a prisoner in a darker place. He rubbed his arm, the mark rough and twisted through his sleeve, no longer rife, but still he endured its sting, its bite, wherever he had tried to survive above it. However distantly the nightmares had abated, the terror desisting with the monster's breath, he was haunted, by any single, faded line, that made out its design. The memories were unforgotten, yet settled, like autumn leaves underneath the canopy, and in winter's coming, a bottomless sheath of snow.

Some had offered him solace. He asked it for his son, instead.

Draco turned down a particular hall, recognizing too late from his distractions where it lead: a door to be unopened, locked, safe-keeping the treasures of a soul a year hence passed. It was no more. The last of the moon casting a cool effulgence, Draco saw the light seep through the inch-thin crack, the sealing spell broken, the face of the locking mechanism shifted from an aggressive scowl to a serene, old man.

Draco looked at the door, appalled, a thousand different possibilities calculating through his head. His grief begged him to pardon it, to put back the seal, to let the dead lie as they always should, and never touch it again.

Another part of him - welling from a place unknown - gently spoke, taking on the charity, the empathy, of the one long departed.

" _Go inside, Draco._ " The specter said, " _Just look._ "

His steps were drawling. His hand, hesitant in its action, as it reluctantly, carefully, nudged against the walnut grain. Regardless of his willingness, so was Draco compelled to the beautiful things that remained, to the illustrious insight, the curious spirit, of his beloved Astoria.

Draco descried, slowly taking in the room as if it had been a hundred years. It had felt a hundred years, a hundred days, traveling the same way forward. Yet every one of Astoria's pieces - the prayer-flags above the bookcase; a jade brooch, an Asian peacock, nestled on a black-felt cushion; the tatami, as it was called, with the embroidered silk sofas sorted in a neat square - was impalpable. A collection unaged. Her being made immortal.

The sky began to turn a nascent sunflower, blushing gently upon his wife's treasures. Draco saw, especially, how it gleamed over the polished edges, the engraved lotuses on her small, quaint study. It is there that he saw an open fan, propped, of pearl white paper, a rich-red circle perfectly set in the center.

It drew him, delicately lifting it by the handle, admiring its simplicity as he turned it over and over lightly in his fingers. He remembered the laughter, of when she recounted its tale:

It had come to her later in her youth, she said. Astoria was never thrilled with Quidditch, but rather the participants of the sport, and of the many talented and handsome athletes, a Japanese seeker, whose name had by now slipped from Draco's mind, was by far her favorite.

She had attended his retiring match, her infatuation set on adolescent hopes for his acquaintance. Luck had favored Astoria that evening; the fan had been a dear souvenir.

"You could have dated a Quidditch pro." he told her, jokingly, unnoticing the humor overwhelming in his chest.

As he imagined, she sat on the Oriental sofa, reading a charming book in a language he could not read. She had read the story countless times to their son, about a goddess of the sun who trapped herself in a cave, only to emerge, so that light be brought unto the world once more.

"To be honest, he was much too old for me." she quipped. She looked up from the pages, gazing adoringly at Draco.

Above the red spot, calligraphy arched marvelously across the spread. He felt Astoria arrive at his side, hand taking his shoulder, reciting the characters with a poet's grace, sweet as a sonnet:

"お日様は、いつも上るよ。"

_"O-hi-sama wa, itsumo noboru yo."_

Fire blossomed, the sun finally rising, and daybreak came. Night into morning, light spilled into the darkness, and marigold warmth in Draco's eyes.

He saw the garden, the window framing a perfect view. Two young wizards stood near the fountain, showing each other their own tricks and casts, long forgoing the drills and diagrams of a book.

Albus' wand abruptly sparked, impetulant in his flourishing attempts. Scorpius reached over, rightening his arm, and with care belonging entirely to his mother, guided his friend, step-by-step, through the gestures of a spell.

Minding the end of Albus' aim, Scorpius spotted a presence in the joyful ore, watching from a room forbidden to breathe. His father's worn look met an almost frightened surprise.

As Draco reflected, seeing tenderly his son, the shock disappeared from the boy's face, growing inspired. Scorpius smiled, more than a simple smirk, but a brilliant and infectious beam, brightly basking in the new divine.

"And what does that mean, my love?" Draco asked, himself smiling, soothed to a hush.

A chin fell softly on his shoulder, and arms wrapped around his waist. An echo whispered with love in his ear.

_"The sun will always rise."_


End file.
